


Wódan Dreáme

by Mayamali



Series: After-Years: A Pacifist Epilogue [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Post-Pacifist Route, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayamali/pseuds/Mayamali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't all sunshine and rainbows, and sometimes the most chill person needs defusing. Post-Pacifist run, PTSD/loop-aware Sans and Frisk. Tie-in to After-Years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wódan Dreáme

Frisk tossed their coat aside onto the saggy couch just inside the door, making no break in their stride. Their cell phone was still in their hand as they asked, “Is he still in there?”

Papyrus' hands, which had been conjoined in front of him and being wrung like a wet towel over a sink, dropped to his sides for just a moment. Then, he changed his mind, and pulled at the collar of his uniform. “Yes,” he said, making a somewhat futile attempt to speak in a volume that wasn't 'yelling'. “He does that eye thing when I try to go in. He's so rude when he's like this.”

Frisk sighed and ran a hand through their hair; it had been cut from a vague bowl cut to something much shorter, and they were still getting used to it. They gestured for Papyrus to move aside and raised their hand.

Before their knuckles could even brush against the wood, the voice inside mumbled, barely audible, “It's open.”  
Sure enough, a gentle nudge of the doorknob created a pitch black chasm between the door and its frame. Frisk gave a quick glance to the tall, spindly skeleton to their side and nodded before taking a step in.

A flash of blue ensured the door was closed the second both feet met the plush carpet of Sans' room. “Sans,” they said gently, making a slow approach. He wasn't on the bed; the covers that he might have hidden under were creased up into a weird ball on the center of the mattress. They vaguely recognized it. “Sans, please come out --”

They almost tripped over him, so quick was he to appear in front of them and wrap his arms around their hips. They both remembered a time when his arms would have crossed around Frisk's shoulders. “He's still out there.”  
“Yeah. He called me. He's worried.”

Sans pulled away and in a flash was by the window, fiddling with the blinds with his bony fingers. “It's real,” he said; it sounded like a boardwalk, firm but wearing down with rot from years of salt water. “We're here. If it was going to --”  
“We've been here for years.” Frisk sat themselves on the corner of the mattress.  
“ _If it was going to reset_. It would have by now. It would have by now.”

“It's been years.”  
Sans dropped his head and ran a hand over his face, and it was only then that Frisk noticed what he was wearing. A worn blue hoodie, board shorts, ratty woolly slippers. “I know. But has it?”  
“What did you dream?”

The question was barely out of their lips before Sans was in front of them again, left eye blaring bright blue. “No.”  
“Sans.”  
“ _No_.” Boardwalk-firm.

But Frisk was patient; they knew. “Who died?” Sans' eye flickered. “Toriel? Undyne?”

“ _You dirty brother killer._ ” The words were said with a unique venom; he meant it, but he didn't mean it. They were words he'd never spoken before, but that he'd uttered a long time ago.

“Everyone.”  
Sans' eye faded, and closed. “Everyone died.”  
“Those are the worst.” Frisk reached out, grasping fingers into thick fabric. “But it's not real. We're here, Sans. Papyrus is right outside. Should we talk to him?”

Sans pulled away again, but he didn't flash-step this time. He was grounding. “No. I still see --”  
“Okay.” Frisk smoothed their hands over their jeans.  
“His cape in the snow.”  
“Okay – remember when we went to the beach for the first time?” Sans didn't reply. “Papyrus yelled at you for falling asleep under the umbrella on such a nice day. You woke up just in time for apple pie.”  
“With a surprising lack of snail.” His voice was faint, but present.  
“Yeah – and that one guy who managed to punch you outside Grilltop. Papyrus lectured at him until he was begging for a citation.”

Frisk was smiling at the memory. Sans' shoulders drooped just a little, relaxing from tension that not even a chainsaw could have cut through. “Have you had any recently?”  
“One, a few months ago.” Frisk's eyes closed; as much as they didn't want to think about, Sans needed help. “We were here. Walking through a park. I looked behind me and saw it. A flower. Laughing.”

Sans turned back to them, eyes furrowed in apologetic sympathy. “Sorry, kiddo.”  
“Sorry, Sans.”

They were both silent for a long moment before Frisk held out their hand. “Come out for just a second? Please?”  
Sans shook his head, bunching up his shoulders again. “Not yet. Soon.”  
Frisk nodded and stood. “Don't let yourself be _bone_ -ly.” They swooped towards the door before Sans could even give an approving snort of laughter. “Or I'll come back and start _ribbing_ at you.”  
“Tibia honest,” Sans started, some of the familiar humor creeping back into his voice, “I think we need new material. A lot of this just isn't as _humerus_ as it used to be.”

Frisk smiled at him from over the shoulder and held up their phone. “You have my number.” They stepped outside, and sighed as the door locked behind them. “He'll be fine,” they assured Papyrus, who hadn't budged from his previous position. The navy blue officer uniform wasn't very flattering to him, they noted. “Just give him time.”

Papyrus nodded, not understanding and not questioning. Frisk touched his shoulder for a moment and smiled at him before going to reclaim their jacket. If they were lucky, they'd have a knock-knock joke text by the time school was out.


End file.
